David Tompkins was the first boy I ever kissed. It happened at the end of our street, on the eve of my fourteenth birthday. A cluster of trees surrounding an old wishing well, a night sky lit by the glow of a full moon, and an ancient promise made by two childhood friends. He held his steely gaze as steady as the stars, unfaltering, unwavering. And when he planted his wet lips on mine, I thought my heart would explode straight out of my chest, into a million pieces or more, and every piece would fly as high as I felt, upwards and upwards, until they too illuminated the night sky in a ruby red glow.
Afterwards, he curled up the corners of his mouth into a sly grin, turned on his heel, and left. And for days I was sure it had been a dream.
David Tompkins was the first boy I ever kissed. And now, as I dab his fevered brow with a damp cloth, as I trace the lines around his eyes with a crinkled finger, as I place my warm mouth over his cold, purple lips, David Tompkins is the last boy I will ever kiss.
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